by Shandi Boyes
When his narrowed gaze returns to my face, I leave my dignity at the door and hesitantly wave at him. He doesn’t wave back. Acting like his coldness didn’t directly punch me in the stomach, I drop my hand to the side of my body and hold his gaze. If anyone has the right to dish out death stares, it’s me. He not only compromised my safety this morning, he also stupidly threatened to unravel the personal growth our exchange last night instigated. Even if it was just a night of fun for him, our time together smothered some of my haunted memories by replacing them with much happier ones. That admission alone eases the agitation slicking my skin with sweat.
My attention diverts from returning Carey’s belligerent glare when Hugo barges me with his shoulder. I try not to jump at his playful touch, but with my nerves rattled by Carey’s irate composure, I flinch before my body has the chance to shut it down.
“Shit, Gem, I’m sorry. Are you okay?” Hugo asks, worry in his tone. Although Hugo kept his voice as low as a hushed whisper, his question still garners me the attention of several nosy glances.
“I’m fine,” I mumble before taking the empty seat next to Ava. “I’m just starving, that’s all. Can we save the rest of the introductions until after we’ve eaten?” Guilt clutches at my throat when my words come out with a hint of bitchiness.
Thankfully, my snarky tone is put on the backburner when Mrs. Marshall says, “Of course we can. She slings her arm around Hugo’s shoulders. “We wouldn’t want any of the food getting cold. Especially not your pancakes.”
Hugo’s eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Snap frozen is the only way anyone should tackle Helen’s scrambled eggs,” jests Chase, his timber brimming with wit. “Because you can only hope the freezer burn will kill your taste buds.”
A broad grin stretches across my face when a bread roll flies across the table and smacks Chase in the nose. I swing my eyes in the direction the bread roll came from. Considering the dark-haired beauty with pretty green eyes is the only one not laughing at Chase’s antics, she must be Helen, Chase and Hugo’s sister. Just like all the Marshall family members I’ve met, Helen has jealousy boosting good looks. If her eyes didn’t hold the same amount of integrity and friendliness as Hugo’s, she has the type of beauty that makes me want to dislike her on sight. I know that sounds callous, but unfortunately, it’s true. Sometimes we women are our own worst enemy. We hate when men judge us on our appearance, but then we do the exact same thing to each other. But instead of appreciating someone’s God-given graces, we get green with envy and act immature.
Helen handles my inquisitive gawk with a friendly smile. After returning her greeting, I shift my eyes to my rapidly growing plate Hugo is over-stacking with food. On the way, I catch a glare that sets my heart racing with both fear and excitement. Just like last night, Carey is eyeing me through a set of thick lashes, but this time, zeal isn’t beaming from his heavy-hooded gaze. It is downright fury. His irate glare adds to the repulsion I’m feeling from sitting at a breakfast table reeking of sex while everyone surrounding me looks like they’ve just been featured in a six-page spread on life, love, and prosperity in the Hamptons.
Swallowing away a lump in my throat, I keep my gaze fixed on my plate of food as I rack my brain about what has caused Carey’s sudden shift in demeanor. Although his composure ran hot and cold a majority of last night, it never had this edge of rawness to it. I acted purely on the desires of my body last night. I have no doubt Carey did as well. So if he is worried I’m expecting a lifelong commitment from one night between the sheets he doesn’t need to be. Although I'm intrigued by him, that doesn’t mean I saw last night as anything more than it was. I'm an adult. I understand the rules of engagement associated with a one night stand as well as anyone else in this room. There are no rules, no expectations, nothing but awkwardness and hours of queasiness. That is the reason I had such a strict 90-day date rule. To avoid horrific confrontations like today.
If only Carey’s eyes weren’t the key to unlocking my heart from years of misery.
Chapter 10
After watching Hugo devour enough pancakes to make anyone sick and copping enough stink eyes from Carey to last me a lifetime, I ask Ava for directions to the bathroom before excusing myself from the table. Although the scent of Ava’s blueberry pancakes makes my mouth salivate, Carey’s angry glare has my usually robust appetite waning. Sitting at a table with dozens of strangers is already challenging, let alone being glared at by a man who was eyeing me with desire only hours earlier.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Hugo asks, peering up at me with a set of eyes that soothe the annoyance Carey’s glare initiated.
My lips carve into a smile. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got this covered.”
Hugo understands that there are times in my recovery where I think nothing will rattle me. But, occasionally, a slip up has my recovery backpedaling. Thankfully, today is not one of those days.
Ignoring Hugo’s pleading eyes, I place my napkin onto my half empty plate of food and head to the bathroom. My bladder relishes being relieved of the three Long island ice-teas Mrs. Marshall served me throughout brunch. Just as she has been the two times we’ve previously met, Mrs. Marshall is a little ball of sunshine wrapped up in a lady any child would be privileged to call their mother. It is events like these that make me wish I had a mother. Don’t get me wrong, my dad is the greatest parent in the world, but there are some things a girl can’t discuss with her father.
As I wash my hands in the vanity sink, I run my eyes over my disheveled appearance. For someone still wearing the makeup she applied in a rusty old truck as it sped down the highway sixteen hours ago, I look remarkably put together. Good genes from a lady I only know from hazy memories deserves a gracious pat on the back. My dad adopted me when he discovered me scrounging for food after an event at San Antonio Raceway nearly twenty-four years ago. Just like the inexplicable connection I developed with Carey in a matter of seconds, the unique bond between me and my dad was instantaneous. He had the eyes of a warrior and a heart even stronger than that. Although adding me to his family was one of the toughest competitions he ever raced, he often quotes it was his greatest win.
After ensuring no immature sentimental tears have welled into my eyes, I exit the bathroom. My heart plummets from my chest when my wrist is seized, and I’m dragged toward a set of French doors. I only just manage to hold in my frightened scream when I realize the energy buzzing around my body isn’t associated with fear. It is excitement.
Lifting my gaze, I spot the stern profile of Carey. His jaw muscle is ticking so furiously, the heavy stubble on his chin is unable to hide it. His eyes are narrowed into tiny slits, and his plump lips from our hours of kissing are set in a hard, rigid line.
I gasp in a shocked breath when he angrily mutters, “What the hell are you doing here?” He drifts his gaze behind my shoulder to ensure we haven’t gained the attention of unwanted eyes before returning them to me. “You need to leave right now.”
Yanking my hand out of his grasp, I take two steps back and crank my neck so I can peer into his eyes. It takes me a few moments to realize it isn’t just anger clouding his eyes—it’s remorse.
Sickened at the thought he regrets spending the night with me, I stutter out, “Are you angry because I’m here or because of what we did this morning?”
He doesn’t need to answer my question; the truth is relayed in his murky gaze. He is angry about both choices on my limited list. For the quickest moment, the shame beaming from his eyes pushes my recovery back to the days following my attack, but it only lasts as long as it takes for me to recall that our actions last night were a two-sided affair. I may have initiated our gathering by kissing him, but he is a grown man who could have stopped things the instant they became uncomfortable for him.
The sick gloom spreading through me morphs into anger when I connect my eyes with Carey’s irate glare. When he first dragged me in here, I was willing to let my ange
r slide just to avoid having an awkward confrontation like this. But since he isn’t grownup enough to throw down the towel without first whipping me with it, I’m not inclined to leash my anger anymore.
“Just a word of advice, when you’re out trolling bars tonight for another naive fool to warm your sheets, go back to the feel-sorry-for-me recluse personality you were working like a pro last night, because it’s shitloads more appealing than the chauvinist asshole you’re portraying today,” I grind out before I can stop my callous words.
Carey’s face lines with anger. “That’s sweet coming from a lady who can’t grasp that a man sneaking out of her bed isn’t an open invitation to brunch.”
“I was invited here,” I snarl through clenched teeth. I cross my arms under my chest and firm my stance. “And you need to get over yourself if you think I’m that desperate for round two I followed you here. Last night was good, but I wouldn’t go cashing in all your tickets.”
My words are strong, giving no indication to the deceit in my statement. Last night was above and beyond anything I’ve experienced, but when a woman must resort to defending her integrity, you bring out the big guns. Every woman knows even the most self-assured man has a hard time accepting a knock to his ego.
Just as I predicted, Carey reacts to my taunt like every egomaniac man I know. The invisible feathers of a peacock fan out behind him as the arrogance in his eyes strengthens. “I didn’t hear you complaining last night,” he mutters under his breath.
“It’s hard to complain with a tongue rammed down your throat,” I fire back, my voice doused with sarcasm. I swivel my finger in the air to mimic the movements of a slithering tongue. “I visit the dentist every six months, so cavity checks during sex aren’t necessary.”
I force a cocky smirk onto my mouth to mask the grimace attempting to cross my face. Every word I'm saying is a vicious lie, but I refuse to let a man make me feel unworthy, even if every word spilling from my lips causes little papercuts to my heart.
“Ha!” Carey laughs, his loud voice bouncing off the walls and jingling in my ears. “You didn’t get a chance to complain?” He takes a step closer to me, engulfing me with his manly smell. “That wasn’t because my tongue was rammed down your throat. It was because you were too busy pleading to cite an objection.”
Ignoring the way Carey’s coffee-scented breath fans my lips, I roll my eyes skywards. “Pleading? Please. The only pleading I was doing was for you to stop jackhammering my uterus into the next century,” I lie.
My pulse quickens when the most seductive smirk I’ve ever seen sneaks onto Carey’s mouth. “’Oh god, don’t stop. More. I need more,’” he impersonates. He lowers his voice to a deep, manly tone as he takes another step closer to me. He stands so close our chests compete as we struggle to fill our lungs with air. “’Harder. Faster. Oh, god, right there,’” he mimics.
Not thinking, I uncross my arms and slap him across the chest. “You’re an asshole. Jerk. Asshat. Dickwank,” I immaturely taunt , each insult a strike to his chest.
A jolt of electricity rockets through my body and clusters low in my core when Carey seizes my wrist with his big, manly hand. My breathing switches from rapid pants to long greedy gulps when I lift my eyes from his expanded chest to his eyes. He stares down at me, eyes blazing, lips twitching. He looks a cross between angry and turned on.
Not willing to reel in my embarrassment, I snarl. “You’re an ass—”
My vicious words are forced down my throat when my mouth is assaulted by a set of lips no amount of anger will ever make me forget. Teeth clash, tongues mingle, and callous words switch to moans as Carey kisses me like a man starved of oxygen. My fingers weave through his hair when he bands his arms around my waist and draws me in. He hoists me up his big body before he strengthens the intensity of our kiss. The hem of my skirt bunches around my waist when I curl my legs around his hips. I need to tether myself to him to ensure I don’t go floating to heaven from his soul-stealing kiss.
Just as quickly as our kiss began, it ends. Carey violently yanks away from me. His abrupt movements nearly send me tumbling onto my backside as I stumble back onto my feet. After his wide eyes scan the room, he locks them back on me. The guilt in his eyes grows tenfold when he drinks in my kiss-swollen lips and disheveled clothing.
“Fuck!” he curses, raking his fingers over his scalp. “Here. Of all the fucking places in the world, you make me lose my mind here!” he roars.
I stare at him, muted and confused.
He scrubs his hands over his eyes before balling them into fists at his side. “Jesus Christ, Gemma! Fix yourself up,” he demands before stepping closer to me so he can yank the hem of my skirt to a respectable level.
“Here. I can’t believe you made me fucking do that here,” he mutters breathlessly.
“It was just a kiss—” My attempts at calming the tornado of anger brewing in his narrowed gaze halts when he locks his eyes with me. If I thought he harbored ill feelings towards me earlier, it is nothing compared to the downright fury his eyes carry now.
When he lifts his hands to my hair to settle the wispy pieces his fingers created to my dead straight locks, I take a step backwards, unnerved by the anger beaming out of him. “I’ve got this,” I mumble, my low voice displaying that I’m on the verge of tears.
Hearing the rattle of my words, Carey drops his hands and peers into my eyes. The hurt in his dark gaze escalates when he spots the tears in my eyes. He runs his thumb across my cheek as if he is going to catch my tears before they fall. He doesn’t need to worry. A tear hasn’t spilled from my eyes in years.
After ensuring his thumbs are dry, he barely mutters, “I’m sorry,” before making a beeline for the door.
Even confused, my heart yearns to ease his pain. “Carey, wait,” I request.
Once I’ve ensured my clothing is sitting right, I follow him to the door. His steps are so long and fast, he disappears down a long hallway before I’ve even exited the room.
I stand in the doorway for a few moments trying to work out what the hell just happen. Time only gives me more confusion. Since I’m so immersed in working out Carey’s bizarre switch in moods, I fail to notice Ava standing at my side. I jump out of my skin when she says, “I wasn’t aware you knew Hawke.”
I turn my bleary eyes to her. “What?” I ask, confusion in my tone.
I’ve heard of the man Ava is referring to, but I don’t understand why she is bringing him up now. Hugo mentioned Hawke numerous times during our deployment to Afghanistan before my attack, but I’ve never had the chance to meet him. After his wife and son were killed by a drunk driver five years ago, Hawke became a ghost. Most people say he died right alongside his family that day.
My brows stitch together when Ava points in the direction Carey just left. “Hawke. The person who just left this room like it was on fire,” she whispers, like she is afraid of my reaction. “I didn’t know you knew each other.”
I swallow to relieve my dry throat before asking, “You mean Carey, right? I’ve never met Hawke.”
The unease swirling my stomach grows when Ava locks her dark eyes with mine. They are beautiful, but full of silent apologies. “Carey is Hawke, Gemma. His real name is Carey Hawke, but everyone calls him Hawke.”
The room spins around me as every second I spent with Carey last night runs through my mind. That’s why everyone stared at him with sympathy all night. That’s why his emotions were so hot and cold. Oh my god. That’s why he reacted so fiercely. We just kissed in the house his wife was born and raised in.
I clamp my hand over my mouth to ensure the contents of my swishing stomach don’t see daylight as I stumble to a bench seat halfway down the hall. I don’t feel sick because I regret a single moment I’ve spent with Carey; I’m devastated at the thought our kiss is causing him pain. If I’d known this was the home his wife was raised in, I would have never kissed him here.
Pain strikes my chest. That’s a lie. It wouldn’t have mattered
if I’d known; I would have never denied his kiss. All thoughts vanish when I peer into his eyes. Pain. Fear. None of it matters during our exchanges. Not last night, and not during our kiss this morning. I don’t feel anything but a bizarre sensation of kinship.
The sweet smell of candy filters through my nose when Ava crouches down in front of me. “Is Hawke the reason you look more rumpled now than you did while wrestling in the bushes around my cabin yesterday?”
An unexpected giggle spills from my lips. I’m so fanatical about angles and lighting, I spent two hours yesterday wrangling prickly bushes in a meadow field just so I could capture perfect pictures of Ava. Although I won’t know the outcome of my country adventure until I spend a few hours hiding in my dark room, I’m sure the sacrifice to my appearance will be worth the effort. Just like my adventures with Carey this morning are worth the sacrifice of feeling betrayed.
Pushing aside the desire to pretend last night was nothing but a fantasy, I lock my eyes with Ava. “He told me his name was Carey.”
Ava scoots closer to me, so her extended seven-month pregnant belly braces against my knee. “Don’t take that as a negative, Gem. He didn’t lie to you. His name is Carey.”
I run the back of my hand under my nose. “Yeah, but anyone who knows him calls him Hawke. It kind of makes me feel a little dirty. Like I’m not privileged enough to know the real him.”
“Hawke introducing himself as Carey makes you privileged,” Ava says, peering at me with a set of stern but understanding eyes. “If you’re the reason he walked into this house this morning still wearing the suit he wore at our wedding yesterday, you shouldn’t feel dirty. You should feel honored.”
Wrinkles line my forehead as confusion engulfs me. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“You gave Hawke back something he hasn’t had in years,” Ava explains to my confused expression. She squeezes my hand before standing from her crouched position. “You returned the spark of life in his eyes, Gem. It might be hidden by remorse and guilt he shouldn’t be feeling, but it’s still there. You gave him that. You gave him something no one’s given him for years. You gave him peace. That makes you privileged. Not dirty.”